Beware the Jester
by livjo33
Summary: The murders of ten people leave a town baffled and Sam and Dean decide to check it out. However, even if it is their type of gig, will they make it out with their lives?
1. Chapter 1

AN: So this will be my third multi-chapter story and I hope you'll like it! Constructive criticism is appreciated and I think I'll try to respond to your reviews this time (if I can figure it out). Also, I'd like to thank one of my closest friends, Grimmjow5580, who helped me with some of the finer details of this story. This story could also be _slightly_ creepier than my previous ones, nothing too bad but please read with discretion.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Everything belongs to the creators of Supernatural.

 **Beware the Jester**

Her heart pounded in her chest. A dim light shone in front of her, cutting through the inky gloom of the moonless night, and her heart leapt with the idea that she had almost reached freedom. However, a branch shifted slightly to her right, and her heart fell right back down to her shoes again. _It's just the wind. Don't be so stupid,_ she told herself. She couldn't quite convince herself it was nothing, though, and pulled herself close to her boyfriend's chest. "I-I don't like this," she muttered.

He laughed, "Ah come on. There's nothing to be scared of!" He shook his head, obviously believing her to be just a fragile girl.

"No I'm serious," she said, tugging on his arm. "There's something out there."

Her boyfriend just scoffed. He turned to her, probably about to make some teasing comment, when the sound of a chainsaw ripped through the night air. She screamed and curled herself farther into his chest, her fight or flight instincts abandoning her completely. However, he seemed just as scared and several curse words colored the night air.

"Come on!" her boyfriend shouted at her. He grabbed her arm tightly and dragged her along behind him as he began to run. Maniacal laughter mixed with the chainsaw sound as they burst into the clearing.

Bright lights hit the teens' eyes as soon as they cleared the woods. Sounds of people conversing mixed with the muffled screams of people still in the woods. The teens stood for a minute, catching their breath after their mad dash, before the girl turned to her boyfriend quickly.

"Steven, you jerk!" she yelled. "You were going to run away and leave me in there!" Her eyes flashed with mock defiance.

"Ah, come on, Stace," the tow-headed boy said with an easy grin. "I was protecting you!"

"By running?" she demanded. "I don't think I can forgive you for this." She began to walk away.

"What if I buy you an ice cream cone?" Steven called after her. He watched as her brunette ponytail stopped bouncing as she paused.

"Well," she turned around, "alright, but just this once." The young couple joined hands again and started walking to their car.

"Besides," Steven said as he opened the door for Stacey, "it isn't like any of it was real in the first place."

Their car pulled out of the drive, and just as they passed underneath the "Jester's Park" sign, the neon lights flicked and died out.

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Ricky sighed. His last idea of fun was chasing ditzy young couples out of the last part of Jester's Park, but it helped to pay the bills. Silently, he tugged at his collar. It had been driving him crazy the entire night and the fake blood splattered on his face was itching horribly. He was so preoccupied with his uncomfortableness that he didn't notice it was taking the next couple an unusually long time to get out of the woods. When he did notice, he glanced down at the watch carefully concealed on his wrist. It read 9:46. _We should definitely still be getting customers,_ he thought. Slowly, he made it to the end of the trail through the woods and carefully peaked his head out. There was still a line of people and the witch sitting at the entrance was still letting people in. _That's weird._

He pulled out his walkie-talkie, the standard one issued to all Jester's Park employees to be used in an emergency, and pressed down the call button. "Uh, this is Saw Three," he spoke into it, "and I think we might have a problem here."

There was almost 30 seconds of silence before he got an answer back. "This is the boss, Saw Three. What's the problem?"

He hesitated for a moment. Maybe he was overreacting and the next group was just walking slowly. However, his gut told him that something was not right. "I've been waiting for almost seven minutes and the next group hasn't reached me yet."

"Alright Saw Three, well maybe they ran into some trouble before you. We'll call the guys in front of you and see if they have had any problems."

"Okay," he responded and tucked the walkie-talkie back into his vest again. He waited for almost another five minutes before the walkie-talkie crackled to life again. The sudden noise made him jump, and he had to chuckle to himself. The fact that he worked in a place designed to scare people and that he was afraid of a little radio buzz was ironic. However, something felt off about the place tonight.

"Saw Three?" the voice came over the static. "You are the only one not seeing the customers. We're stopping people coming in and we're going to take a walk back your way to see if we can find our wayward customers. We'll meet up with you in two minutes."

"Sounds good boss."

Two minutes later, George Smith walked up with two other workers. George rested his meaty hand on Ricky's shoulder. "Let's take a walk, shall we?" Ricky simply nodded and followed George deeper into the woods.

They walked for almost 300 yards down the twisting paths, when George suddenly stopped. Ricky had been scanning the woods to the right and left of him and therefore ran right into George's broad back. He quickly muttered an apology and sidestepped his boss, wanting to see what had stopped the big man so cold.

As he saw it, he felt his breath freeze in his chest. There in front of them, lay ten bodies. Now, this wasn't unnecessarily an unusual sight in a haunted attraction, except for one thing. These ten bodies were real. They were the customers that Ricky hadn't seen come back out. That wasn't even the most disturbing part, though. The worst part was that they were laid out in grotesque positions in a semicircle surrounding a jester doll. The jester was where the park got its name. He sat in a wooden chair, his head tilted to one side with a blood-red smile painted across his face. In his hand, he held a knife. And above his head, nailed to a post, was a sign. _Beware the jester._

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(Dean's POV)

The morning was going perfectly. Of course, he never would have said that out loud. It was such a Sam thing to say. However, that didn't take away from the fact that it was true. He and Sam had been hunting again for almost six months now. They had just walked away from a simple salt-and-burn with surprisingly no scratches to speak of. There was no hunt lined up and currently he was on his second helping of the best bacon and eggs he'd ever tasted. He would definitely be content to stay just like this for a while.

However, with a brother like Sam, there was no way that was happening. Sam slid his mammoth-like bulk into the booth across from him. "Dean, so get this," he started. Before he could continue, though, Dean interrupted him with a groan.

"Seriously, Sam? I was just starting to like it here," Dean intentionally allowed his voice to whine.

Sam drew his eyebrows together. "What?"

"Whenever you start a conversation with 'so get this' it means that you have a case for us to solve."

"So?" Sam asked. "I thought you were the whole 'saving people, hunting things, the family business' guy." Dean glared at Sam as he watched his little brother's mouth quirk up into a little grin. Playing along, he threw his hands up into the air.

"Fine," he said, "what have you got?"

"Okay," Sam suddenly had the laptop in his hands, and Dean took a brief moment to wonder where he had had it before because he was certain Sam hadn't had it when he sat down, and opened it up. "So apparently, there was this huge murder in a haunted forest two states over."

"Okay?" Dean asked, his mouth now full of eggs. "Some psycho in a costume snapped. Sounds more like the police's deal, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he corrected, off-handedly, "but the police have no leads. No one heard anything. Who doesn't hear anything when ten people are murdered? And also they would have only had about 20 minutes to kill everyone and that just doesn't make a lot of sense. And then there's the fact that all the actors were accounted for…"

"Woah, woah, woah, hold up there, Sammy," Dean cut off Sam's nerd ramble. "Did you say ten people were killed?"

Sam nodded, still engrossed in the computer screen. "And apparently, to go with all the hype, a lot of people are saying that the place really is haunted. That it's not all fake."

Dean scoffed. "Well, there's always going to be crackpots that show up with cases like these. I'm still not convinced it's our kind of gig."

Sam finally looked up from the screen. "Well it can't hurt to go check it out."

Dean sighed and motioned for the computer. Sam turned it over and looked at his own breakfast. Dean scanned the article. Then, he looked up at his brother again. "So, you wanna go check this out even though the victims were," he paused to look down at the article again, "'strangely posed around the attraction's iconic jester'?" he looked at Sam. "You know that a jester is basically the same thing as a clown, right?"

Stilling immediately, Sam appeared to be thinking it over. After a few silent moments, he looked up at Dean with the huge puppy eyes he'd had ever since he was a baby. "Come on, Dean. Please?"

Now it was Dean's turn to go still. The smirk dropped from his face. His brother hardly ever pleaded for anything. What was it about this case? Sighing, Dean knew he was beaten. He looked at Sam. "So, when do we leave for lovely Missouri?"

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(Sam's POV)

"So," Sam looked up from his notepad at the police officer, "you have no leads?"

"No, sir," the young man said. "As I said, all the actors were accounted for. Every single place with actors has to be manned by at least two people and all the partners checked each other out."

"And isn't it possible that they're just covering for each other?" Sam asked, wondering if Dean might be right about this not being their kind of thing.

The officer shook his head. "We don't believe so. The only two that could have done it without being spotted were standing right before Ricky, and those two really don't like each other. I don't think they would have covered for each other."

Sam started to respond when a rustling came from the woods behind him. He tensed, half expecting a killer jester to burst from the woods. However, a familiar voice burst from the leaves.

"God, I hate nature!" Dean growled as he became visible, picking leaves and twigs from his hair. Sam grinned slightly as he watched his older brother's professional façade slipped for just a moment. It was rare that his brother was ever himself in front of people that he didn't know.

"Find anything, Agent Harris?" Sam said while concealing another smile.

Dean paused a moment to glare at him before regaining his professional composure. "Besides a lot of leaves and one creepy ass jester? Not much."

Sam unintentionally flinched at the image of a creepy clown-like thing sitting in a haunted woods. The place where the bodies were found was definitely one of the reasons why Sam had chosen the interview and not the investigation of the crime scene. He closed his notepad and looked back to the officer. "Well, Officer Hernandez, I think we have all that we need for right now."

The young man nodded quickly and walked back to his car. Sam turned to Dean. "Really? You didn't get anything?"

Dean shook his head. "Nope. Nothing. Not even a blip on the EMF machine. I really don't know if this is our kind of gig, Sam"

Sam hung his head. He was starting to agree with Dean. "Yeah I think you're right."

"Well that's a first," Dean flashed his shit-eating grin. "Let's go back to the motel. We can leave tomorrow."

Sam nodded and followed Dean back to the Impala. However, he couldn't quite shake the creepy feeling that had his "spidey senses" tingling. He couldn't help looking over his shoulder one more time. He stopped walking as he swore he saw something flash just out of the corner of his eye. When he didn't see anything else, he convinced himself that he was making something out of nothing. _Clowns,_ he thought to himself. _Get over yourself._

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 _Coming into existence. Sleeping for years was hard, but now he was hungry. The other night felt good. Silent screams echoed in his ears. Crimson lips pulled away from his jagged teeth. It had been glorious. But he wasn't satisfied._

 _The men that came earlier. They were a threat. Threats were eliminated. He was unstoppable. They wouldn't be a threat for long._

AN: So how did I do? Please leave a review and give me your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you for everyone who is following this story! Please continue reading and maybe even leave a review. They really make my day! Also, words in italics are either thoughts or the monster.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Everything belongs to the creators of Supernatural.

 **Beware the Jester**

Officer Hernandez wound his way through the woods. He still didn't know how he drew the short straw on this crappy job. The chief at the station had decided to set up a patrol through Jester's Park in case the killer was hanging around and no one had wanted to volunteer, especially for the night shift.

Hernandez shivered as wind whistled through the tree branches. He had never liked haunted houses, scary movies, or even Halloween that much. He couldn't understand the appeal of wanting to be afraid. However, as he was still the youngest officer in the force, he pulled the crap jobs. So here he was, patrolling an empty, yet creepy, haunted attraction.

 _I hope Joe is enjoying his beauty sleep,_ Hernandez bitterly thought to himself. He and Joe didn't get along, to say the least. They always got partnered up, though, because they were the newest to the precinct. _Tomorrow, Joe is so getting this job._

Some leaves shifted behind him, and he whirled around, shining his flashlight at the area. When he heard nothing else but the wind, he turned around and kept walking. He never noticed the glowing eyes that peered from the under the bushes.

He was quickly coming up on the clearing where the people had been murdered. Hernandez spied the jester doll as he rounded the corner. It was no longer roped off by police tape, as the detectives figured all evidence would be lost to the elements by now anyways. The doll still sat in its chair, the sinister smirk painted across its face. Hernandez felt a chill run up his spine as he looked into its face. Forcing himself to look ahead, he quickly walked past the jester.

The clearing was almost completely behind him when he heard it. Hysterical laughter echoed off the trees. He froze. _What was that?_ Slowly, he turned back around. Everything looked fine until he came upon the chair.

"What the hell?" he said. The jester was missing. His heart went into overdrive, and he shakily pulled the gun from its holster. "Who-who's there?"

There was no answer, but the laughter continued. It seemed to be surrounding him. He spun, trying to catch sight of whoever was in the woods with him. He completed his circle and was facing the chair when something else caught his eye.

His eyes widened and his mouth opened in horror. "No! No!" he screamed. "Please! Don-"

Silence. Then, laughter ripped through the air again.

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(Dean's POV)

"Dean. Dean! Wake up already!"

Dean groaned. Sam had been valiantly trying to wake him for the past five minutes. However, Dean was so comfortable on the bed and he knew that they didn't have anything to do this morning, so he refused to be wakened. It was time to get up anyways now, and Sam seemed to be getting more agitated, so he rolled to his back and popped one eye open to look at his younger brother. "What?"

Sam's hair was sticking up wildly, he obviously hadn't bothered to smooth it down since he slept. He was still in his short-sleeve black shirt and sweatpants he had fallen asleep in. In his hands, he held the TV remote. Sam rolled his eyes when he saw Dean awake. "Finally," he said, "watch this." With that, he unmuted the TV.

A middle-aged woman was the reporter. She had a serious expression etched on her face as she stood before a familiar scene.

"Hey," Dean said as he sat up, "that's Jester's Park."

Sam nodded and shushed him. "Listen."

Dean huffed but silenced anyways. The woman's voice droned on.

"-at Jester's Park again last night. Officer Paul Hernandez was found dead this morning. He was posed the same way as the previous victims. The police have now sanctioned off Jester's Park as an unsafe area and aren't allowing any unauthorized people on the premises until the killer is brought to justice. They are also cautioning people to stay indoors after dark as much as possible. This is Jo Johnson, stay safe everyone."

With that, Sam clicked off the TV. Then, he turned to look at Dean.

"Not meaning to sound insensitive," Dean started slowly, "but, so?"

Sam's eyes opened wider. "What do you mean so? Another person was killed in those woods!"

"Sam," Dean said firmly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, "there is no more evidence today then there was yesterday that this is our kind of gig. Sure I feel bad for the guy, but that doesn't mean that Hernandez wasn't just killed by the same psycho that offed the first ten."

Dropping down on the bed, Sam put his head down into his hands. He stayed like that for several seconds before he looked back up at Dean. The same pleading that had been present when he had convinced Dean to look into this case was there again. "Please, Dean. I just have a feeling."

Even though all his instincts were screaming at him to say no, Dean couldn't deny Sam much when he looked at him with those eyes. Besides, if it made Sam feel better to have one final check to prove that it wasn't any of their concern, it wasn't the biggest deal.

"Fine," Dean relented, "but only so I can prove to you once and for all that this is just some sick human doing this."

Sam grinned slightly, obviously detecting the challenge in Dean's voice. "Deal. But if I'm right, you're doing laundry for a month."

Laundry was the brothers' least favorite chore to do. In their line of work, they tended to pick up some of the worst stains that proved nearly impossible to get out. However, they were also too broke to buy new clothes every time the article of clothing became stained by something horrendous. Therefore, laundry was a grueling job that was either assigned through a game of rock, paper, scissors, or was tackled by the brothers together.

"Oh, you are so on," Dean replied with a smirk and walked to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

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(Sam's POV)

The brothers had been allowed into the crime scene under their fake FBI badges again. This time, Sam had gone into the woods with Dean. It wasn't that he didn't trust his brother to be thorough, but he had to see for himself.

They had been walking for about four minutes when they came upon the clearing.

"I present to you," Dean said in a quiet voice, "the creepy ass jester."

And there it sat. In the middle of the woods and the center of so much carnage twice now. Sam shivered as he saw the grimace pulled across its face and its cold, dead eyes. Why anyone would pay to see that, he had no idea.

The two circled the jester, both deciding if anything was going on, it was happening here due to the positioning of the bodies. Dean pulled out his homemade EMF meter and flipped it on. Sam held his breath, waiting to hear the familiar screeching that meant something was not right. Not even a whisper.

"I told you, Sammy," Dean said, waving the EMF meter close to the jester's head, "nothing."

Sam frowned. He had been so sure that this was something they could solve. However, it appeared that Dean was right. With a sigh of resignation, he turned to Dean, imagining the stacks of laundry he had coming his way when he admitted defeat. However, when he looked at his older brother, Dean's eyebrows were drawn together in confusion.

"Wait a sec," Dean muttered.

"What?"

Dean pointed at the jester, eyes still fixed on it intently. "There's," he paused, "something." Without another word, he spun on his heal and walked back to where the rest of the police were waiting. Sam followed, wondering what had caught Dean's attention.

"Officer Martin!" Dean called out, almost 100 yards away from the clearing. "Do you have the photos from the first crime scene on hand?"

A muffled reply that Sam couldn't quite catch floated through the woods, and a minute later, a tall, blonde officer came running down the trail. "There you go, sir."

"Thanks," Dean muttered as he took the picture from the young officer's hand. Then, he turned around and headed back to the clearing again.

Sam was starting to get frustrated with not understanding what was going on. He followed Dean back until the stood in front of the jester once again. "What is it, Dean?"

"It moved."

"What moved?" Sam asked, desperately trying to think of anything else besides the freaky doll sitting in front of him.

"The jester doll," Dean replied. He crouched down so he was eye level with the doll. "It's not in the same spot as the first picture."

That caught Sam's attention. "What? Let me see." He reached down and grabbed the picture from Dean's hand.

Sam stared at the picture closely. After looking for a minute, he saw what Dean had noticed. In the first picture, the jester was looking down, seemingly staring into its lap. Also, its hands were folded and the knife was almost completely concealed. However, now the jester was looking straight ahead, its eyes meeting directly with Sam's as he examined it. He shivered at its dead eyes but kept looking. One other thing was different as well. The knife was no longer concealed. Instead, it was held firmly in the doll's right hand and was resting on the edge of its right knee. It's as if the doll was waiting for an opportunity to stand up and gut the next person that walked by. It was unnerving, to say the least.

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 _The two men from the day before were back. It had been too bold last night. Watching from the trees, its temper flared as the two touched what belonged to him. The wind whistled and the temperature dropped as rage clouded its thoughts._

 _Soon. These men would die soon._

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(Dean's POV)

He looked up as the wind suddenly picked up. The wind ushered in cold air and set him on edge. Without looking, he grabbed Sam firmly by his shoulder. Before he could say anything, though, a loud screech cut through the air.

Both brothers jumped. They felt vulnerable as they were without their weapons. Since they hadn't expected any trouble, they had left almost everything in the Impala. Dean silently cursed himself. _Always bring the weapons. Especially with our luck!_

Dean reached into his pocket. The screeching that had set both of them on edge had come from the EMF meter which had suddenly come alive. He looked down and watched as the lights buzzed crazily and the screeching continued at a fevered pitch.

He just turned to say something to Sam when he heard quiet laughter and then a creaking sound. Looking down, he watched in horror as the jester's head began to turn. When the head stopped moving, it was looking straight at him and the laughter increased in volume.

"Go!" he yelled at Sam. Without their guns, their only chance was to outrun the thing. He pushed Sam in front of him and the brothers set off at a dead sprint.

The trees seemed to echo with crazy laughter as they ran past. Neither brother slowed down to look behind them. Since pushing Sam ahead of him, Dean had steadily caught up. Now, they ran side-by-side.

The laughter was growing even louder as they ran. Dean chopped at branches while he ran, promising to kill whoever decided to design this God-forsaken horror show in the overgrown woods. Right when he thought whatever it was had almost caught up, the two burst into the clearing with the police officers. Immediately, the laughter stopped. However, the brothers did not. Since they had been running so fast, they didn't have enough room to stop. Therefore, Sam slammed hard into Officer Martin and Dean tripped over the both of them as they went down. There the three men laid, each in varying degrees of pain.

"Agents?" Dean heard a confused voice from above him. He recognized it as George Smith, the owner of Jester's Park. "What's going on?"

Dean sat up with a groan. His head was pounding in time with his ankle, which he had apparently twisted when he went down. It made it very hard to think up a plausible story as to why the two FBI agent had just come running out of the forest like bats out of hell.

Slowly, he stood up and put on his most intimidating face. "That's classified, Mr. Smith. But I want everyone removed from the area immediately and no one is to return until I let you know personally. Understand?" He didn't know why, but people usually got very flustered when the word 'classified' was thrown into a conversation and it generally helped move things along quicker. Therefore, it was one of his favorite words.

Mr. Smith paled considerably. "Are we in danger, Agent Harris?"

Dean nodded, but quickly regretted it when it made his head pound even harder. "I believe so, but for right now, please don't ask questions and just evacuate everyone."

George nodded quickly and walked off at a quick pace. Once it was clear the big man was rounding everyone up to leave, Dean looked down at Sam. His younger brother was sitting up, holding his head and looking around. Then, he looked up at Dean.

"Still think it's not our kind of gig?" he asked.

"Oh, no," Dean replied and looked to the forest, "I _know_ it's our kind of gig."

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 _They had escaped! Never in all of its years had anyone escaped, and it was furious. Rage burned through its body. How could he have let this happen?_

 _It was no matter, though. They would be back, it could sense it. And when they came back, they would never leave the forest again._

AN: I wasn't quite sure about this one so please tell me how you think I'm doing! Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks to everyone who read, followed, or favorited this story! And a special thanks to those who reviewed! Sorry for the long delay. I don't have any excuse except for my own procrastination skills. I hope you're still interested in reading this!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Everything belongs to the creators of Supernatural.

 **Beware the Jester**

(Sam's POV)

"So the EMF meter went off when the jester came to life," Dean gritted out through clenched teeth, "that must mean it's a spirit of some sort."

Sam looked up from where he was bandaging Dean's ankle. "Not necessarily. It could have been a demon."

Dean scoffed. "How many times have we even seen a demon? No. It's more likely that it's just a dime-a-dozen pissed off spirit."

Sam slowly finished tying off the bandage and thought about what Dean had said. It was a better chance that the jester was a spirit, but what if it wasn't? They'd waste time looking for a corpse to burn while more people could get hurt. "Shouldn't we at least check it out?"

Dean groaned as he stood up. He winced as his sprained ankle took on his bodyweight. "Sam we're here because you convinced me to 'check it out'. Now you have me convinced that this is our gig and you try to tell me that you think the culprit is a creature that we rarely face up against and the one time we did we almost got ourselves and a plane full of people killed. Is that what you are telling me?"

"I just – I have a feeling. Please, Dean," Sam let the plea bleed into his voice. He knew that the fact he had a feeling wouldn't convince Dean forever, but it should work this time at least. "Besides, you're always telling me to trust my instinct."

Pulling his hands roughly through his hair, a sure sign that he was frustrated, Dean looked over at Sam. "Fine! How do you propose we go about discovering whether this was a demon or a spirit?"

"Well," Sam sat down and pulled out his dad's journal. Even when Dean wouldn't believe him, he would follow his father's guidance to the ends of the earth, "if it is a demon, there should be sulfur residue left at the crime scene."

Sam continued to study the journal's worn pages, hoping to find more evidence that would prove this wasn't a simple spirit. He ignored the sounds of Dean limping around in the room behind him.

"Wait," Dean said, stopping his pacing. Sam turned around to look at him, "I thought demons possessed people, not freaky jester dolls in fake haunted attractions?"

"Nothing in Dad's journal says that demons exclusively possess people. And don't tell me you wouldn't love a case with a Chucky wannabe doll?"

"Hell no! Just because I'm not terrified of clowns doesn't mean I have to enjoy dolls that come to life and kill people. Actually, I'd much prefer if this was just another escaped looney bin killer that the police could deal with incompetently as usual."

Sam spun back around to face his dad's journal once again. "The police aren't always incompetent," he muttered as he went back to examining the pages on demons.

A slight laugh escaped Dean's lips, obviously not agreeing with Sam's opinion on law enforcement. It was one of the many things that the brothers disagreed on. However, Sam did agree that they tended to complicate things when pieces of the supernatural crawled into the light and destroyed people.

He looked up sharply when the sound of the motel door opening interrupted his concentration. The heel of Dean's right foot was all that he saw before the door closed again. Quickly, he scrambled out of the chair and wrenched the door open. Dean was just unlocking the Impala. "Hey!" he shouted and followed his brother over to the car. "Where the hell are you going?"

Dean smiled at him with his most innocent smile, the one usually reserved for police officers under interrogation. "Well, Sammy, you see, I have a pain-in-the-ass little brother who insists that an angry spirit is a demon. So, I am once again heading to the scene of eleven gruesome murders. Again. To prove him wrong. Do you have a problem with that?" With that, he opened the Impala's door and slid into the driver's seat. Sam stepped in front of the door so Dean couldn't close it.

"Yes I do have a problem with that. You can't go by yourself. Or did you forget that we both almost became murders twelve and thirteen in those woods earlier today? And if this is a demon, we have to go in with a plan."

"I didn't say I was going alone," Dean said.

Sam's jaw dropped and he looked around, praying for the strength not to strangle his brother. Then he looked back at Dean. "You sure as hell weren't waiting for me!"

"Nope," Dean flipped the ignition. "I thought I'd ask our friend Officer Martin to join me. Now, please move so I can go."

"Wh – why?" Sam asked, not quite believing what he was hearing.

Dean sighed, as if Sam was misunderstanding a simple concept. "Because while I'm gone, you're going to be looking into violent deaths surrounding the property or people associated with Jester's Park. That way, when I get back, we can go toast ourselves a fugly and be on our merry way. Now move."

Sam had to pause, forcing himself to run what Dean had said over in his head. Before he could think of a way to respond, the Impala started backing up, forcing him to jump out of the way. The door slammed shut and the window rolled down.

"Don't worry, Sam," Dean leaned out the window. "I'm just going to make sure this isn't a demon. I'll be in and out in ten minutes, tops. And besides, I'll have the protection of the law with me. What could possibly go wrong?" Dean smirked again and backed up farther. "Have some leads when I get back!" he called out the window before the Impala roared away, leaving Sam in a cloud of smoke.

It was that moment that Sam's voice began to work again. "Dean! DEAN!" he screamed at the fading car. The pit in his stomach felt heavier now. However, he reminded himself that Dean was an adult and one of the best hunters he knew. He could take care of himself. And when he got back, he would expect Sam to have some idea as to who the spirit might be, if it even _was_ a spirit. Reluctantly, Sam turned his back to the direction Dean had just disappeared in and forced himself to walk back into the motel room.

 _Just don't get yourself killed you jerk,_ he thought as he sat down and started researching every violent death that could possibly be connected to the park.

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(Dean's POV)

The music pounded out at a car-shaking volume, loud enough to draw Dean's thoughts away from the real world for a few minutes. He was on his way to the police station to bring Officer Martin back to Jester's Park with him. Bringing the younger officer would be beneficial because he would more likely bend to Dean's fictional FBI status, he might be able to share what he knew about the haunted park, and Sam might actually blow something if Dean went back to the woods without backup, even if the backup was an inexperienced police officer.

The Impala growled to a halt outside the station, and Dean turned the volume down on his music. He opened the glove compartment to find his badge. Once he had found it, he opened the door and walked up the stations steps.

Sitting at the front desk of the station was a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties. Immediately, Dean flashed his smile that he knew made women of every age go weak in the knees.

"I'm Agent Harris. Can you tell me if an Officer Martin is in?" he said as he showed her his badge.

The young woman looked up, blushed slightly when she saw him grinning at her, and then looked back down. She typed something into her computer for a few seconds. "Uh, yes. He – uh, he got here ten minutes ago."

"Thanks," he smiled wider. "Do you think you could get him to come down here?"

"Sure! Sure, of course," she pressed a button. "He's not in some kind of trouble is he? Because he's a really good guy and he just lost his partner this morning and I'm sure he's taking it hard and I'd hate-"

Dean was overwhelmed by the wave of words that suddenly poured from her mouth. Unable to get a word in edgewise, he found himself very grateful when the blond officer from the crime scene earlier came strolling into the room.

"Agent Harris," Officer Martin was obviously surprised to see him there. However, common courtesy had him automatically sticking out his hand. Dean grasped the offered hand in a firm grip. "What are you doing here?"

"I was wondering if I could borrow you for half an hour to go back to the crime scene with me? It's just a quick inspection of things so it shouldn't take long."

"Oh," the officer seemed taken aback, "you're sure you want me? Wouldn't you like a senior officer to go with. You know, someone with more experience?"

Dean shook his head. "Nope. We were impressed with your work this morning and wanted you to come back out. Besides, the FBI is always looking for young talent." Dean had to hide a small grin when the young officer puffed his chest out a little more at that comment. It had always been easy for Dean to read people, and this man obviously liked praise and thought a lot of himself. Therefore, an easy way to get him to come with, was to compliment him.

"I guess I can come with you then," Officer Martin shot a grin over at the secretary. Then, gesturing with his arm, said, "After you."

The smile on Dean's face turned slightly sour, not liking the officer's tone. However, he just nodded and walked stiffly out in front of the officer, desperately trying to conceal his limp.

The two men walked towards the Impala. A soft whistle came from beside him, Officer Martin now standing at his side. "Is that your car? What kind of pay do you get in the FBI?"

Dean chose not to answer, knowing that he'd say the wrong thing and blow their cover. Instead, he limped around to the other side of the Impala and got behind the wheel. The passenger side door opened and Martin dropped into the seat next to him.

"Where's your partner?" Martin looked around the car, as if expecting Sam to jump up from behind the seats. "I thought we were going to check out the crime scene?"

" _We_ are. Agent Murray is doing some more research today instead."

"Oh, okay."

The drive to the park was silent except for the low tones of the music still playing in the background. When they finally pulled in, Dean had to refrain from bolting from the car. He wasn't use to having to be so silent in his baby. Usually, the music was blaring, him and Sam were talking, he was trying to annoy Sam, or he was pissed in which case he wanted silence. The forced and awkward silence of the ride from the station was suffocating. _Give me a hundred angry jester spirits to go up against before another awkward car ride._

"So, what are we looking for?" Officer Martin was standing behind him. They were both facing the exit of the woods, closer to the jester than the entrance is. The woods were giving off a creepier feel than they had yesterday, and even though he knew it was just his imagination, the sun seemed dimmer and the trees appeared to be leaning towards them maliciously.

"I'll let you know if I find it."

With that, the two men walked into the woods. Dean's limp had gotten more pronounced now that he was more focused on not getting attacked. "What happened to your leg?"

Dean fought back a growl. Martin didn't know that the threat of dying right now was very real, he assumed they'd be able to stop the killer before it killed them. He didn't know that this was the kind of killer that he couldn't possibly fathom, much less defend against. He also didn't know that they needed to be absolutely silent. However, Martin probably wasn't going to stop asking until he answered. "Twisted it."

Officer Martin sucked in a breath, preparing to ask another question. Before he could, though, they were in the clearing. The jester was sitting the chair again, but this time, its head was tilted at an unnatural angle, its eyes fixed on the two men. Dean could feel the young officer shudder behind him.

Dean walked forward, he reached a hand back to make sure that his pistol loaded with salt rounds was still tucked safely in the waistband of his jeans. He made certain to come prepared this time. Leaning forward, he carefully checked around the jester for sulfur, a clear sign of demon activity. The trees moaned as the wind whipped through them. Dean shivered as the temperature dropped. Before he could fully comprehend what his brain had just told him, he felt something wrap around his throat.

He could hear Officer Martin in the background screaming. However, he was completely focused on the face he was staring into. The jester's mouth was still pulled into an evil smirk but its eyes were more alive. They were slit open and glaring right into his own. No matter how he struggled, the jester's grip remained firm. Sometime during the struggle, he had dropped his gun and was once again defenseless against the jester.

As the jester's hold around his throat cut off his oxygen, he began to see dark spots on the edges of his vision. _Don't pass out now, soldier,_ he heard a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his father's. _If you pass out now, you'll die._ But he couldn't hold on, and consciousness started to fade.

 _Sorry, Dad. Guess I disappointed you again._ Right before he passed out, another voice, one that held much more malice, whispered in his ear. _Die._

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(Sam's POV)

3:30. It was 3:30 which meant that Dean had been gone for almost two hours now. Two hours without calling for a job that was supposed to take at most an hour. Sam had started pacing after an hour and a half, and ten minutes ago, he started cursing at his brother, threatening him with several things if he came walking back fine. And now, he was calling.

"Pick up your damn phone, Dean," Sam muttered. If Dean picked up and acted like he had done nothing wrong, Sam was going to kill him. That is, after he broke down with relief.

After ringing for almost a full minute, the call picked up. "Where the hell have you been?" Sam demanded. "You said this job wouldn't even take half an hour and it's been two. What the hell, Dean?"

"Uh, Agent Murray?" came the voice on the other end of the line.

Sam's heart dropped down to the floor. "Yes. Who is this? Put Agent Harris on the line."

"Well, this is Captain Rogers from the police department."

"Why do you have Agent Harris' phone?" Sam demanded. He didn't like that the captain hadn't answered him right away. "Please, sir, put him on. This is official business."

"I'm – uh – I'm afraid I can't do that for you," the captain said hesitantly.

"And why not?" Sam said in his most commanding voice, all while he was shivering on the inside. _Please don't say he's dead. Please don't say he's dead. Please don't say he's dead._

"Well – you see –" the captain stopped, "Agent Harris appears to be missing."

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 _Finally. He had what he wanted. What he had waited for all these years. And they would pay. He would see that they would all pay._

AN: Okay. So I am totally nervous about this chapter. Especially the scene with Dean and the jester. Please be honest about what you thought so I can improve for next time! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Thanks to everyone who read, favorited, followed, or reviewed on the last chapter! It's been pointed out that Dean might have been a little out of character last chapter so I hope that I have fixed that problem this time around. Please let me know though!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Everything belongs to the creators of Supernatural.

 **Beware the Jester**

(Sam's POV)

 _Why?_ Out of all the questions circling around Sam's head the past hour and a half, this one troubled him the most. Why had the jester taken Dean instead of just killing him? Why had the jester left Officer Martin alive? Why was this attack different?

He had already been through the crime scene a dozen times, each time seeing the same thing. First, the bloody trail that lead out of the woods, left there by a badly hurt Officer Martin as he dragged himself away from the jester's seat. Officer Martin had been stabbed twice, once in the shoulder and once in the leg. Both wounds were fairly deep, but the officer had managed to call in and receive help before the wounds became critical.

Next, was the other puddle of blood. The blood that didn't belong to Officer Martin. The blood that belonged to his brother. The blood that was only in a puddle, that didn't have a trail to follow, that didn't give any clues as to where Dean might have gone.

And finally, there was the jester. Even though Dean had disappeared, the jester had not. It still sat in its chair, the malicious grin stretched across its face. There was just one thing different. The knife was now missing and that thought made Sam's stomach turn. _Dean is probably with that knife_ , his inner voice constantly nagged. _Who knows what's happening to him with that knife, and here you are with no leads. Absolutely useless._

While searching through the latest crime scene, Sam had also checked the jester. Since Dean couldn't answer about whether or not the jester was a demon or a ghost, he had to look for himself. He needed that information to be able to save his brother. What he had found had dropped his heart down to his feet. No sulfur. Not even a speck. Dean had been right and now he was missing. All because Sam wouldn't trust Dean's instincts that it was a spirit. _It's your fault,_ the traitorous voice whispered in his ear. _Dean is dead and it's your fault. You killed your own brother._

Sam had been unable to go back into the woods since. He knew that Dean would mock him. Scared of the voices in his own head? How ridiculous. However, some small part of him was terrified that the voice was right. That Dean was dead. That he had died only because he hadn't trusted Dean to know what they were hunting, even after twenty years of experience.

Now, he was standing just outside the woods, staring into them. Most of the police were leaving now, unable to decipher anything else that was left in the woods. Sam, though, couldn't quite bring himself to leave yet.

"Officer Murray?" Sam jumped, startled out of his thoughts by the voice coming from behind him. It was the captain that had told him that Dean was missing. "We're packing up. Are you coming with us? Thought maybe you'd have some helpful insight since this involves your partner now."

His throat seized up at the mention of Dean. "Uh – yes I'm leaving, but I won't be joining you. I have to contact our supervisor and inform him about what's happened."

"Oh, of course. Make sure he knows that we won't rest until Agent Harris is found," the captain said, taking his chance to be seen in a good light by the FBI. However, Sam knew that the captain didn't really mean it. At least, not to the extent that Sam did. The captain and his team wouldn't be staying up until the early hours of morning searching for the thing that had taken Dean. They wouldn't be feeling too horrible to eat or sleep until Dean was found.

Sam nodded at the captain as the man turned to walk away. He stood watching the forest for another minute before he turned away to go back to the Impala. He had research to do.

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After two hours of searching, Sam thought that he finally had it. As he dug through the seemingly peaceful town's records, he stumbled across something distinctively _un_ peaceful.

Going through the library's old records, Sam found a newspaper article. The article painted a grim picture from almost fifty years ago. There had been an old man living out in the woods, he lived there by himself. He never came into town. Instead, he spent all his time creating dolls. In 1957, four teenagers had gone to his house on a dare, the one that could steal one of the dolls and escape would win. When they had gone in, the old man found them and tried to chase them out of the house. However, once they got outside, the man had slipped and cracked his head on one of the stairs. The teenagers didn't run for help and he died in minutes.

Since the teens were afraid they'd get in trouble for what they did, they burned the house down instead of getting the police. After that, there was a string of brutal knife murders in the woods, much like the ones of the recent weeks. The killer was never caught, and after all four teenagers who had been involved in the man's death had been killed, the killings stopped. Therefore, the police never investigated further and the town soon for forgot about it's summer of tragedy. However, something had disturbed the spirit and it had not forgotten or forgiven the grievances of the past. It still wanted revenge, the kind of revenge that involved bloodshed and a lot of it.

However, none of this explained why Officer Martin hadn't been killed and Dean had been taken. This didn't matter to Sam now, though. All that mattered was that he had a name. A name and a fairly good idea of where the cabin used to stand. He figured that if he went back to the cabin's site and burned anything that was still standing, including the dolls, the spirit would be destroyed. It was the best chance he had since there was no body. He just prayed that it would be enough to save Dean.

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(Dean's POV)

The old house had been empty for over an hour now, vacant of anyone but himself. He woke up in the burned-out shell of the small house almost three hours before, head throbbing in a staccato rhythm of pain. He'd woke up disoriented and chained to a wall, he couldn't remember where he was or why he was there.

 _I was in the woods,_ he thought. _I was looking for proof that it wasn't a demon. Why am I here now?_ Dean tried to focus on solving the mystery of his current situation, but his brain refused to cooperate. His thoughts flitted through his head, making them impossible to pin down and analyze. _Concussion probably._

As he was still trying to get his addled brain to function, a cold wind swept through the house. A quiet laugh that he'd become so familiar with the past few days followed it. _Well this can't be good._

He sat in his corner for several minutes, waiting for the spirit to manifest and his life to end. Five minutes later, though, and nothing had happened. _What the hell?_

Suddenly, the front door (what was left of it) flew open. Heavy footsteps thudded on the porch outside, causing the floorboards to groan in protest. Dean kept his gaze fixed on the door, feeling distinctly helpless due to the absence of any weapons.

In through the door walked a slight man. He was probably about 20, or at least had been when he died. His hair was wild, sticking up in odd angles, giving him the appearance that he had lived in the woods for an extended amount of time. The most noticeable thing, however, was the knife he clutched in his hand. Dean recognized it as the one that the jester usually held. _So not good._

The man's eyes hadn't left Dean since he entered the room. Dean fought the urge to squirm under the intense glare. "Like what you see, freak?" The spirit didn't respond, he just continued to get closer. When it arrived at Dean's feet, it crouched down. It studied him for another moment, and then grinned.

 _What the hell is this thing?_ It wasn't acting like any spirit he had ever encountered. Spirits hardly ever broke routine and they almost never played the cat-and-mouse game that so many other supernatural beings enjoyed.

"Hey buddy, I know I'm good-looking, but I don't swing that way.

The spirit just continued to grin. Dean watched it carefully, his heart pounding. One never would have guessed by looking at him, but most of the time when he was hunting, he was terrified. He had learned to put on a brave face at an early age for both his brother and his father. Usually, he used that fear to keep him sharp and on his game. However, today, he was just scared. But he'd go to hell and back before he ever admitted it.

In one sudden move, one that Dean couldn't even see, the spirit's had shot out. A sharp, burning pain from his arm took his breath away. He let out a slight grunt and focused back on the spirit. The knife in its hand was now dripping. _He cut me,_ he thought. He looked down at his arm, staring at the blood welling up on his forearm.

" _You killed him,"_ a voice came. _"You killed him. He burned. You killed him. He burned. I kill you and you will burn. I kill you and you will burn."_

The spirit's voice held no malice. In fact, if it weren't for the ominous words, the mantra wouldn't have sounded threatening at all. The chant had an almost sing-song quality, and right now, it was freaking the hell out of Dean.

"Listen buddy, I didn't kill anyone. At least, not anyone you know." Dean's words had no effect on the spirit. It never stopped saying the words. After almost an hour of sitting there, the spirit stood up and walked to the far end of the house, still repeating its mantra. It bent over by one of the tables and picked something up, then walked back to Dean.

" _All alone. Dripping in blood. All alone. Dripping in blood. You killed him. He burned. I kill you and you will burn."_ Dean was surprised to hear the change in the chant. It had to mean something to the spirit, but without knowing who it was, he wouldn't be able to figure it out.

The spirit dropped something next to Dean. It was a jester doll. Almost an exact replica of the one in the woods, but this one didn't look menacing. Instead, it looked like something a child would play with. Dean tried to decipher what this meant. Before he could think too far on the subject, the spirit stopped talking. Dean looked up sharply to find the spirit staring right at him.

" _Tick tock. You're next."_ It grinned one last time, and then disappeared. 

Dean had collapsed back against the wall in relief, clutching his bleeding arm with his hand. He allowed himself a minute to calm himself down, knowing that he needed to be in better control in order to find a way out. _Geez, if Sammy could see you now, he'd never let you live this down. This afraid of a dumb spirit? It's not like this is your first hunt. Get a hold of yourself._ However, he knew that if Sam found him now, he'd be more likely on the receiving end of a girly hug than a teasing. And who knows? If Sam was here, he might just let him.

After he had gotten a hold on his nerves again, he started analyzing the chains that held him prisoner. The steel links were wrapped around his wrists in an intricate pattern, the thick metal rubbing ruthlessly against his now damaged wrists. That didn't deter him, though. Instead, he pulled with all his might against the bonds, desperate to escape. The cry of protest from his abused wrists didn't stop him, but when he went to brace his feet against the floor for more leverage, something else did. A white hot pain bolted from his ankle. He collapsed when the pain registered in his brain, causing him to clench his teeth to prevent from screaming.

 _Damn,_ he thought to himself. _Forgot about my ankle._ He glanced down at the offending body part and winced when he saw the unnatural angle it sat at. _Hate to say it, Sammy, but I think it's a little more than sprained now._

That was half an hour ago. Since then, he'd continued to yank at the chains periodically, but it was no use. The lock pick set he had tucked in his jacket was useless since there was no lock to pick and brute strength was obviously futile. However, the stubborn streak in him that his father had always complained about refused to let him give up. Gritting his teeth, he tightened the makeshift bandage he'd wrapped around his forearm in between attempts to free himself. Then, he yanked again.

The chains held. Dean relaxed his straining arms, now sore and cramped from fighting the chains for so long. Slowly he relaxed against the wall again, letting his arms fall into his lap. _Don't worry, Sam. 'M not giving up. Just taking a break._ He leaned his head against the wall. _Just a short break._ His eyes slid close.

AN: So? What did you guys think? I hope this one was better than the last and that Dean stayed in character better. Also, please tell me what you thought about Dean talking to Sam in his head. I'm not sure what I think about it so I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Thanks for everyone who favorited, followed, or reviewed the last chapter!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Everything belongs to the creators of Supernatural.

 **Beware the Jester**

(Sam POV)

The sun was barely sliding down in the sky when Sam started his trek into the woods. He had a general idea as to where the little cabin used to stand, but there was no exact location. This just made it a hundred times harder to find Dean.

He had spent his whole day searching for more information on the old man and his cabin. Occasionally, he'd get a call from the police station, the officers hoping that he'd found new leads and assuring him that they were still looking. Of course, he didn't share what he'd discovered about the cabin, knowing that the police wouldn't see it as relevant.

As soon as the sun began to set in the sky, Sam had driven the Impala to the woods. He had free access to Jester's Park, no one had been in the park after the officers had left. Everyone was afraid of the woods and Sam was no exception, he was just afraid for a whole different reason. He was afraid, terrified actually, that this forest would be the one that would take his brother from him permanently.

He made his way to the jester's clearing where Dean had been taken. From there, he wandered away from the path. His research told him that the cabin, or what was left of it, would be almost in the center of the woods. There was no real information on the cabin since the man had been virtually forgotten by the town except for in the record books. However, this didn't deter Sam in the slightest.

Since Dean had gone missing, it seemed like Sam had been unable to stop counting. Counting the seconds, minutes, hours that Dean had been gone. The time that he could have been hurt, time that he could have been…that's where Sam forced his mind to stop. That possibility was always tugging at the edge of his conscience but he refused to let that thought seep in. Because if it did, he knew it would overwhelm him.

He walked for almost half an hour with nothing but trees and other forest vegetation as his company. There weren't even other forest animals moving around in the background. This instantly put him on alert. There was definitely something wrong with this forest.

A few minutes after he noticed the lack of animal life, Sam pulled out the EMF detector. As soon as it was turned on, a piercing squeal burst forth from the small machine, confirming the fact that he was not alone in the woods.

Quickly, he shut the EMF detector off and put it away. Now that he knew there was something out there, there was no use in sending up a shining beacon for the spirit to find him. Assuming, that is, that it didn't already know.

Sam was so focused on watching out for the homicidal spirit that he almost missed the burnt out cabin when he stumbled across it. The thing would have been small to begin with, and with the fire and years of neglect, the tiny building practically faded into the trees. Mother Nature had begun to take back what was hers, small plants and vines making their way to the cabin's caved-in roof.

The cabin drew Sam up short. As he took the sight in, his heart started pounding faster. He knew very well what he might find in the cabin. He'd seen Officer Hernandez's body at the scene of the murder. Gruesome didn't begin to cover it. The thought of find Dean's body like that, ripped and sliced cruelly by a knife, made his stomach start to turn. However, if Dean was in the cabin and was alive, he shouldn't have to wait while Sam was ten feet away and trying the work up the nerve to go inside.

Taking a deep breath and giving himself a mental pep talk (with a voice that always seemed to sound a little like his older brother), Sam walked the ten feet it took to get him to the door and then entered the cabin.

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(Dean's POV)

The blackness started falling away from his vision as consciousness began to come back to him. When he opened his eyes, he realized he'd fallen asleep, or passed out at least, in an awkward position. He was leaning forward, his head resting on his chest, causing his neck to cramp. The hunched position also forced him to lean on his bound wrists, making them pound in time with his head.

Before he could finish his self-evaluation, he heard a noise outside the cabin. Certain that it was the spirit coming back, he searching for something to defend himself with, anything to prevent him from becoming the next gutted victim. However, nothing had magically appeared while he was unconscious so he was just as defenseless as he was the first time around.

Heavy footsteps vibrated through the cabin. Dean drew himself up, determined to at least give the appearance strength no matter what he was feeling. He closed his eyes, preparing himself for this next showdown, possibly his last.

"Dean?" Sam's deep voice registered and Dean's eyes flashed open. "Hey!" Sam was suddenly kneeling in front of him, his concerned eyes searching over Dean's face. "Are you alright?"

Relief coursed through his body at the sight of his younger brother. "Sammy, you cannot believe how glad I am to see you."

"Feeling's mutual," Sam said, and the corners of his mouth quirked up slightly as he continued scanning Dean's body. His mouth tightened in what was probably concern when he saw the bloody scrap of fabric that was covering Dean's wounded arm. He didn't say anything about it, though, and instead started to examine the chains wrapped around Dean's wrists. Tugging gently on them, Sam looked only more concerned when Dean hissed slightly as the chains pulled at the now raw skin.

"Tried that, Sammy," Dean gritted out. "Think we're gonna need a little more manpower to get me out of this. Didn't happen to bring some bolt cutters with you?"

Sam set the duffle he had slung over his shoulder on the dusty floor. He started rifling through it, a look of deep concentration on his face.

For a second, hope coursed through Dean's system. Had his younger brother actually brought the only pair of bolt cutters they owned? Then he deflated just as quickly. Surely, even Sam, the king of ultra-preparedness, hadn't brought the bolt cutters for a hunt that was going down in the woods.

"Nope," Sam said as he stood up. "But I have the next best thing."

"Woah, Sammy. I know I've cracked some bad jokes over the years but surely that doesn't warrant shooting me," Dean joked weakly, eyeing the shotgun in Sam's hands.

Sam snorted. "I'm not gonna shot you, you jerk. But since there is not lock to pick, we don't have the bolt cutters on hand, and I'm not going to leave you here with some crazy spirit, this is our next best option."

Dean grimaced as Sam helped slide him farther away from the where the base of the chains connected to the wall. "Alright. Just aim carefully, bitch."

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(Sam's POV)

The shotgun wobbled ever so slightly in his grip as he took aim at the chains. He knew that this was their only option, the only other possibility was leaving Dean in the cabin and pray that the spirit didn't come after his older brother in the hour that he'd be gone. No, he couldn't chance it. However, this was almost as terrifying. Because now there were real bullets in the shotgun and he was firing at a target less than three feet away from his injured brother. It wasn't that he didn't trust his aim, but he knew that it was a real possibility something could ricochet and hurt Dean worse.

"Hey, Sam," Dean's voice came from the floor, "are you gonna do this already or should I send the ghost an invitation?" When Sam looked, Dean's eyes held the spark of a challenge but also trust. Complete trust that Sam could do this. And that was all he needed. Before he could hesitate again, he checked his aim and fired.

The chains made a horrific clanking sound as they fell to the ground. Sam lowered his gun and rushed over to Dean. He was sitting in the same spot as before, just a little more hunched over. "You okay?"

Dean sat up straighter and looked at Sam. For a split second they just looked at each other, and then, Dean broke into the widest grin Sam had seen in a while. "Man. That was awesome!"

A relieved laugh pushed through Sam's lips. He clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Yeah, it was great. Now what do you think about getting out of here?"

As quickly as the smile burst across Dean's face, it faded again. Now it was more the usual smirk Sam saw so often. "That might be a slight problem."

"Why?" Sam asked, panic starting to rise in his chest again. Nothing he'd seen of his brother so far had made him believe that Dean was unable to walk. And if Dean was admitting to it, it must be bad.

"Well," Dean stopped and appeared to ride out a wave of pain, "I think my sprained ankle might be a little more than sprained."

Sam immediately bent to check to injured limb. The swelling looked even worse than before, and the ankle now sat at an obviously wrong angle. Guilt flooded him. His quick diagnosis earlier of a sprained ankle must have been wrong. There must have been a small fracture in the bone that was made worse by continued abuse. "God, Dean. I'm so sorry."

If Sam had looked up, he would have seen a confused look on Dean's face. "Sorry for what, Sammy?"

Sam bowed his head farther, seemingly weighed down by the guilt. "I said it was just sprained, but it must have been fractured and now it's worse," the words came out in a rush.

It disturbed Sam to hear a faint chuckle coming from his older brother. His head snapped up to meet Dean's eyes and saw that they held no resentment. "In case you forgot, you weren't the only one making the call on my ankle, Sam. And besides, this is by far not the worst thing you've ever done to me. Remember the car thing in Oklahoma?"

Sam grimaced at the memory. He had taken the Impala to a high school dance when he was sixteen, promising to bring it back in perfect condition. However, kids were careless and the Impala had gotten a chunk gouged out of her by a neighboring car door. Although it hadn't technically been his fault, he remembered hiding from Dean for at least two days and tiptoeing around him for almost a month.

Even though that memory happened to be one of the most frightening of his childhood, it made Dean's point. His older brother didn't blame him for this and the only one he was mad at was the spirit.

Thoughts of the spirit reminded him of what he'd discovered earlier in the day. "Dean, I know who the spirit is!"

"Yeah, same here. Young guy who looks like he's lived under a rock for most of his life? Got that special kind of crazy in his eyes?" Dean said through gritted teeth as Sam started to maneuver him into a standing position.

Sam stopped moving Dean. "Uh, no. Actually he should be pretty old."

Dean looked like he was about to say something when a blast of cold air filled the room.

Before Sam had the chance to look up, a powerful swing sent him across the room. He let out a groan when he slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the room and dropped to the floor.

"Sam! Sam!" Dean screamed at him from his own position on the floor. "If you hurt my brother, I swear to – son of a bitch!"

Dean's cry of pain panicked Sam. He sat up and searched the room for the shotgun. It sat five feet away from him, easily within reach as long as the spirit didn't come back at him. However, that seemed unlikely as all the spirit's attention seemed to be focused on his brother. As much as he hated his injured brother being his diversion, Sam knew that it was the only way to get rid of it. _Just hang on, Dean._

Quickly judging the distance from himself to the gun, Sam pushed himself over and grabbed the weapon. With an ease that hundreds of hours of practice had honed, Sam turned over, secured the gun in his hands, aimed, and fired. The shot hit the spirit straight on, dissipating it instantly. Knowing the effect on the spirit wouldn't last long, Sam moved to his brother's side, determined to find his new source of pain and then get out of the godforsaken cabin.

When he moved, though, he realized that task would be even harder than he'd imagined. Now that the spirit was gone and his adrenaline had worn off, he was aware of a sharp pain in his back. The impact he'd made with the wall hadn't done his ribs any favors, and some of the ribs were definitely bruised or cracked. This, coupled with Dean's bad leg, would make escaping the woods with their lives an extremely difficult task.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice came out a little breathlessly. "Sam?"

He could hear Dean moving around, most likely trying to get to his younger brother. No matter how badly Dean was hurt, Sam would always come first.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm here," Sam said and pulled himself up, groaning lightly. "What'd he do to you?" He walked to his brother slowly, each step sending pain through his back.

Dean let out a huff. "I'm fine. How about you? That wall didn't look to forgiving."

"Dean-" Sam warned, wanting to know what was wrong. Before he could ask again, he was cut off.

"Dammit, Sam," Dean growled, frustration laced in his tone, "right now, my injuries are not life threatening. But yours are going to be the determining factor of whether or not we make it out of here alive. So knock it off and tell me if you can get us out of here."

Thoroughly reprimanded, Sam felt his ribs. Usually, Dean wasn't quite so harsh to Sam. However, when it came to the safety of his younger brother, he was not letting anyone get in his way, not even if it was Sam himself.

"Bruised or cracked ribs. Nothing I can't handle," Sam responded. Dean nodded, trusting, at least for the moment, Sam's self-assessment. Picking up the shotgun and bag of other tools, Sam once again made his way to Dean. He knew lifting his brother would hurt both of them, but it was also the only way they'd get out alive. Carefully leaning down, he grasped Dean's out-stretched hand and, in one quick motion, hauled him up.

The bolt of pain that shot up his rib cage took his breath away and forced a slight gasp past his lips. On his left side, he heard a corresponding groan from Dean as his injured ankle took his weight.

"Ready, Sammy?" Dean's asked through panted breaths.

Sam grunted in affirmative and the pair slowly started shuffling towards the door. Before they got too far, Sam felt something dripping down his neck. Its distinct smell and temperature immediately gave it away. "What the hell, Dean? Are you bleeding?" he brought them to a stop. He glanced at Dean's other arm, the one that hung at his side. It was still wrapped in its makeshift bandage.

"He got my other arm. No big deal."

"Dean!" Sam cried in exasperation. It had taken him thirty minutes to get through the woods when he was healthy. Granted he didn't know exactly where he was looking, but it would still be a long way for Dean to walk, especially if he was bleeding the entire time.

Dean sighed. "I swear, it's not a big deal. Now let's get out of here already."

With reluctance, Sam started to move them forwards again. There was no way he'd be able to set Dean down and pick him back up again, at least not in the span of time that they needed to be out of the cabin by. Dean's arm, along with all his other injuries, would have to wait to be tended to until they were out of the woods. Literally.

The brothers limped their way out of the cabin and quickly realized another problem to add to their long list. In the time that it had taken Sam to reach the cabin, and in the time spent in the cabin, night had fallen. This presented two concerns. One, it would make it much harder to navigate the woods in the dark. Two, it gave the spirit a distinct advantage as his usual haunting time seemed to be after the sun sank.

"Bring a flashlight, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"In the bag," he answered and shifted the duffle to emphasize.

"Good, let's find me a stick."

Sam stopped short at Dean's remark. "What? Why?"

"So I can walk by myself," Dean replied. Sam could hear the smirk in his voice, the smirk that meant he was purposefully trying to annoy his younger brother. Usually he succeeded. "Look, someone need to be holding a weapon in case our friendly, neighborhood ghost shows back up. And someone also needs to be manning the flashlight so we can see something."

"Well, why can't you hold the gun while I hold the flashlight?" Sam asked. He knew it was a bad time, but he still couldn't help but baulk at an order.

Dean let out a huff. "Takes two hands to aim a shotgun. If I have an arm slung over you, can't do that."

Even though there was a part of him that resented being told what to do, he knew Dean had a point. He also knew that now wasn't an ideal time to argue about it, especially since it would end up being an incredibly unsuccessful rescue mission if he strangled Dean during an argument.

Nodding, Sam shuffled forward and carefully deposited Dean on a piece of rotting wood that might have once been a banister. Although Sam's ribs screamed in protest when he bent over, they also felt much better without Dean's added weight pulling on them. Slowly, he turned in a circle, hoping to find something that would allow Dean to walk by himself.

After two minutes of careful scanning, all the while feeling the minutes tick down from when the spirit dissipated, he finally found what he was looking for. He walked over and picked it up, a branch almost three and a half feet long and plenty sturdy. Hopefully, it'd get Dean through the woods.

He walked back to Dean, one arm wrapped securely around his ribs and the other held his prize. "Think you can make this work?"

Dean examined the branch, and his brother, critically. "Yeah," he said, still eyeing Sam. "Real question is, can _you_ walk out of here?"

Sam stiffened at Dean's words. He knew that Dean hadn't meant them as a challenge, that he was just worried for his younger brother's safety, but something inside Sam wanted to prove to Dean that he was just as strong as the other Winchesters.

Forcing his arm to drop from around his ribs, he plastered a smile on his face. "Of course. I'm not the gimp, remember?"

Dean snorted at Sam's words, gave him one more long look, and then stuck his hand out for the branch. Sam relented the stick without comment and shrugged the bag off his shoulder. Knowing he couldn't set the bag down and rifle through it to find the flashlight and shotgun without causing extreme pain to his ribs, he hung it out in front of him, silently asking Dean for help. Dean took the cue without saying a word. He set the bag on his lap and soon had both the flashlight and the shotgun out, along with several more salt rounds. It only took Dean a few seconds to reload the gun and then offer it up to Sam. Next came the salt rounds. Sam gave a small smile, thanking Dean without actually saying it. It was a well-established rule in the Winchester family. As often as you can, refrain from apologizing and saying thank you, it wasn't usually needed.

With everything now ready, Dean climbed unsteadily to his feet using his makeshift cane. He flicked on the flashlight and aimed the beam into the trees. The weak stream of light made the woods seem even more menacing, as if they knew they were burdened by a great evil. "Man," Sam heard Dean sigh. "I _hate_ camping."

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(Dean's POV)

The walk through the woods was surprisingly uneventful. It had taken them almost an hour, an incredibly long time considering it took Sam half that on the way there. However, with his busted ankle and Sam's bad ribs, he guessed he should be grateful for the little amount of time it actually took.

By the time they got back to the Impala, his ankle was throbbing fiercely and he had been gritting his teeth for the past half hour to keep from crying out. He could tell that Sam was starting to flag as well, his sweat slicked face and noticeable hunch over his left side a dead giveaway. Neither said anything to the other, though. They both knew and voicing their distress wouldn't help the situation in any way.

They finally made it to the clearing where the murders took place. Instantly, they were on higher alert. Even though they had been walking through crowded woods for an hour with barely means to protect themselves, this place was the ghost's haunt of choice. And it _was_ the witching hour.

Nothing happened in the clearing, though, or the rest of the remaining trail of Jester's Park. Instead of being relieved by this, it only put them more on edge.

The sight of the gleaming Impala had never been more welcome, and Dean felt his heart lift just at the sight of her. He grinned, "Baby, it is so good to see you." He heard Sam scoff next to him, but ignored him as he immediately went to the driver's side door.

"Um, what do you think you're doing?" Sam's voice came from behind him as he reached for the handle. Dean hesitated, realizing his mistake. All at once, the adrenaline seemed to drain from his body and the pain from his injuries hit him like a truck. However, he didn't let it show. And as his head pounded in time with his ankle and sliced forearms, he grinned at his younger brother.

"What? Even in the shape I'm in, I'm a better driver than you and you know it."

Sam rolled his eyes, and if he didn't have what was most likely a concussion, he knew he would have been on the receiving side of a slap up the head. However, he relinquished the handle gracefully and limped slowly to the other side of the car. Still using his stick to balance, he pried open the door and gingerly levered himself into the passenger seat. He sighed as he rested against the first comfortable seat he'd sat in since he had driven the Impala last. Sitting with his eyes closed, he allowed himself to melt into the interior.

"Hey." That is, until Sam started nudging him. "Can't go to sleep yet. We have to check you out at the motel."

Dean muttered under his breath, but knowing that Sam was right, forced his eyes to open once more. He looked over and saw Sam eyeing him with concern. As glad as he was that his brother had found him, all he really wanted now was to sleep. Therefore, he fixed Sam with a half-hearted glare and said, "Gonna start the car, bitch?"

He turned away to watch out the window, but could practically hear Sam's grin when he replied, "Jerk."

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 _He watched them from the woods. The gleaming black machine roared to life and eventually grew smaller until it disappeared. He had let him escape, he hadn't wanted to, but he did. Besides, he told himself, revenge had waited all this time, it could wait another day. All it would take would be one mistake. And he would make a mistake, they all had. Grinning, knowing that he would win, he melted back into the shadows. Laughter echoed off the trees._

 **AN:** It is finally here! I'm so sorry this took so long, but I couldn't find the motivation to write at all. I also am really disappointed in the last couple parts of this chapter, but I wanted to post so it might be kind of rushed. Sorry if it's horrible. Please tell me what you think either way!


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** Thank you to everyone who favorited or followed the last chapter! And a special thank you to the ones who reviewed! Hopefully someone is still interested in this story after the horrible updating… I'm glad you enjoyed the last one more than I did! Please keep in mind as you read this chapter that the worst I've ever hurt myself is a broken toe and a horribly jammed finger, so my knowledge of the medical field is slim to say the least. Please be forgiving of any mistakes, and feel free to point out any glaring errors so I can make it better. Thanks! So without further ado, on to the next one!

 **Disclaimer:** Still don't own them. Bummer.

 **Beware the Jester**

(Sam's POV)

"I should kill you," Dean grumbled next to him. "In fact, the only thing stopping me is the fact we're in a public place. It doesn't even matter that you saved me. I'm so gonna kick your ass for this."

Sam had been listening to Dean's angry mutters for almost half an hour now. It was true that he had told his brother he'd check him out in the motel, but there was no way he even going to attempt to fix a broken ankle in a shady motel room. So, once Dean had started to nod off, Sam had pointed the Impala in the direction of the nearest hospital. To say that Dean was unhappy would be an understatement. Almost all of his mutterings were ways that he was plotting to kill his younger brother, each one more creative than the last.

He stood firmly by his decision, though. Dean had grown increasingly more pale, most likely due to blood loss and pain, and Sam wanted to make sure he got the proper care. He was kind of concerned about what the doctors would say when they saw Dean's forearms. To someone who didn't know what happened (and who was going to believe attacked by a vengeful spirit?), it would look like Dean had cut himself. Sam was still trying to find a way to talk around that one.

Before Dean could launch into his next rendition of ways he was going to murder his younger brother, a nurse came into the waiting room. "Dean Walters?"

Sam stood up carefully, mindful of his tender ribs. He was impressed with how quickly they'd gotten in. There weren't many people in the ER so early in the morning, and for that, Sam was grateful. All he really wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep for a day, maybe more. That's why he found it so upsetting when he turned around to see Dean still sitting in the chair, an angry look on his face.

"Dean, what are you doing? She called you, let's go," Sam felt his temper start to rise. He was running on a whole day without sleep coupled with the pain of his injuries. He really didn't have the patience or the energy to deal with Dean being stubborn.

"Dammit, Sam. I told you I don't need a hospital. Just take me back to the motel and patch me up there." Dean shifted in the chair and winced as the action tugged on his ankle.

Sam sighed and forced down his anger. Yelling would only escalate the situation and then Dean would never make it into the exam room. So instead, he decided to rationalize with his older brother. "Dean you're in pain and with my ribs I can't patch you up, okay? I'll even get checked out too, so let's just go and get this over with." That wasn't true. He'd patched Dean up when he was in worse conditions, but when all else was failing, he knew the "protect Sammy" instinct would always win. Yes, it was a little under-handed, but he was too tired to figure it out any other way.

Dean regarded him carefully, his arms still crossed in front of his chest. After what seemed to be great consideration, Dean relented. Slowly, he unfolded his arms and reached for the crutch that had been given to him upon arrival. Then, he pulled himself out of the chair and hobbled slowly to the still waiting nurse. She gave him a friendly smile and held the door open. With a tight smile in return, Dean maneuvered through the door and into the depths of the hospital. Sam followed closely at his heels.

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They made it back to the motel only an hour and a half after they went to the exam room. When Dean was getting x-rays for his ankle, Sam kept his promise as had the doctor x-ray his ribs. The doctor determined that his ribs were only bruised and told him to wrap them and rest. Dean came back a few minutes later. It was confirmed, the ankle was broken, it was bad but not bad enough to require surgery. Instead, the doctor gave Dean a moderate sedative and set it in the room. He had wanted to give Dean something stronger that would put him out completely, but Dean wouldn't allow it. Instead, he'd sat and gritted his teeth as his bones grated back into place.

After that, it took about an hour for Dean to get his cast set. Dean bore it with minimum patience and a painfully polite smile. When they were done, Dean hobbled out of there as fast as he could. Back at the car, Dean sat in silence, obviously still a little peeved that Sam had taken him to the hospital instead of back to the motel. Sam knew from past experiences that Dean would only be angry for a little while longer, therefore he didn't even attempt to talk to his brother.

As soon as the car stopped, Dean reached for the door handle. The door swung open with its familiar creak and Dean steadied himself against it. Sam waited. He knew his older brother was stubborn, but there was only so much he was willing to let him suffer before he intervened. Maybe he'd get lucky and Dean would actually ask for help. The chance of that happening was slim, though, so Sam waited patiently for an opportunity to offer his assistance.

Dean let out a sigh and reached into the back for the crutches the doctor had given him. After a small struggle, he managed to get them to the front seat with him (he had accidently hit himself in the head with one, but Sam was already in the doghouse so he didn't mention it). Sam had gotten out in the time it had taken and opened the motel room door. He stood close enough to help if he was needed, but not too close that it would grate on Dean's nerves.

With something almost resembling grace, Dean swung himself out of the car. He took a moment to steady himself, but he didn't even stumble. Even though, to his knowledge, Dean had never used crutches before, he was handling them like a pro. Sam didn't know why he expected anything different. Dean had always been freakishly good at controlling his body. It was part of why they made such a good team. Dean was the physical side and Sam was the mental side. He wasn't saying that he wasn't athletic or that Dean wasn't smart, they just each excelled in certain areas. Proving that he could use the crutches so adeptly must have put Dean in a better mood because he shot Sam a small grin as he hobbled past into the motel room. Sam once again followed him in.

Sensing that the ice had thawed, at least enough for them to talk, Sam started in as soon as they were in the room. "I don't get it."

Dean looked at him. "Don't get what? That I haven't killed you yet? Don't worry, it's coming."

Sam just rolled his eyes. "No, the spirit. Who was it?"

"I thought you said you knew," Dean replied.

"I thought I did." Sam sat down at the table where all the papers he'd went through before were still sitting. "Everything pointed to this old man that died in that cabin in the 50s. But that spirit out there had to have been in his twenties."

Dean grunted in agreement and pulled up his sleeves to reveal the makeshift bandages covering his arms. Lucky, the doctor had been so focused on his ankle, he hadn't questioned his brother's other more suspicious-looking injuries. Sam walked over to his duffle and rifled through it to find their first aid kit. Then, he walked over to his brother and sat down next to him. He helped re-bandage Dean's wounds as he contemplated where his research had gone wrong.

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(Dean's POV)

At first, he was pissed that Sam had taken him to the hospital instead of back to the motel room, but he understood it. If the positions had been reversed, the would have been no way that he would have tried to fix Sam's ankle in the room. Therefore, by the time they'd gotten back to the room, he was no longer upset. But, he didn't let Sam in on that yet. His pride wouldn't allow him to admit to being wrong, and after hitting himself in the head with the crutch, he wasn't sure if his pride could handle another blow.

He sat very still as Sam carefully rewrapped his injured forearms and contemplated the case. The spirit had obviously been a young man, but Sam said that his research had indicated that the death of the old man in the 50s was the only violent death he could find linked to the cabin. Not only that, but the killings of the teens who had been involved started right after that. It all seemed to fit, except for the age of the spirit.

The brothers' silence allowed Dean to turn over his encounter with the spirit in his head. _You killed him._ It had been the first thing the spirit had said. In fact, the spirit seemed convinced he had killed someone, someone who had then burned. His trains of thought suddenly collided and he threw his head up sharply to look at his brother.

Sam had to pull back his head to avoid being clipped in the jaw by Dean's fast-moving head. "What?"

"Are you positive the old man lived alone?"

"Uh, pretty sure," Sam's brow furrowed as it always did when he was concentrating hard. "There was no mention of him living with someone else, but he didn't come to town hardly ever so I guess there's a possibility there was someone else."

Dean nodded. "'Cause this spirit seemed pretty sure I killed someone." He paused. "We need to look into this guy more."

He made a move to stand up but was quickly restrained by Sam's large hand. "Woah, where do you think you're going? The doctor said you should keep your foot elevated for at least two days before you tried anything too strenuous. And I'm pretty sure going after a homicidal spirit is considered strenuous."

Frustration fought to boil over, but Dean clamped it down. He knew that Sam was worried about him, but having his ankle damaged made him feel helpless. And feeling helpless shortened his temper exponentially. "I'm not going to be _hunting_ the homicidal spirit. I'll be _researching_ it." He forced a quick grin. "And I pinkie swear that when it comes to digging up someone's old bones and lighting them up, I'll let you dig the grave while I sit next to you with my foot elevated, holding the flashlight."

Sam looked reluctant, and Dean couldn't blame him, almost losing one another usually had that effect. However, it didn't take long before Sam returned Dean's weak attempt of a grin with his own. "How's that different from any other time, jerk?"

Dean replied without hesitation. "Bitch." A real smile tugged at his lips as he reached for his crutches.

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They had been sifting through old town records for almost three hours, and Dean's head was ready to explode. After two hours, the words had begun to blur. Two and a half, they swam. And now, they were outright jumping off the page. Worst part was, they had nothing to show for it. Every record pointed to the old man being a crazy loner that hadn't lived with anyone, or even really been acquainted with anyone, since he had moved to the town.

"Dean! I found something!" Sam's loud voice sliced through the silence of the library like a knife. The old witch of a librarian, who had already been glaring at them for the past hour, shot Sam a nasty glare and fiercely pointed at the sign that asked visitors to whisper. Sam looked properly reprimanded and didn't speak again. However, he did make his way over to Dean as quickly as possible.

Sam slid into the seat next to Dean and smoothed the papers in his grip onto the table. The small town's library hadn't really caught up with the times, and therefore any record before 1980 was still on paper. That had only made their search for information that much harder.

"Carl Weber," Sam said in a stage whisper. "Never married and no siblings that anyone ever knew about."

Dean frowned. "How is this new information?"

"Well," Sam said as he turned over the sheet. "I looked through and found another Weber in town. A boy in school. He was only there a week before he was pulled out and never seen again."

"What? Isn't it a law or something that kids have to go to school until a certain age?" Dean itched to move closer, but his ankle (which was elevated, thanks to Sam) made that impossible. Or at least, impossible with any amount of ease.

"Yeah – but I guess there were some special circumstances," Sam leaned closer to the page, as if that would make him understand better.

Dean sighed. Sam really did have a flair for the dramatic sometimes. "Sammy? Care to share with the class?"

Sam pulled back from the paper, looking slightly flustered as he always did when he was pulled from deep thought. "Oh – uh – it just seems that no one really knew who this kid was. He just showed up one day in town. No one claimed him and he wouldn't talk so no one could find his parents. And I guess he was sort of different."

Dean had started fidgeting with one of the old records that sat in front of him. "Like our kind of different?" he asked, and quickly stopped messing with the papers when the librarian's icy gaze turned on him.

"It doesn't really say…just no one wanted to take him in until one day Carl Weber came into town. He took him in, gave him a name, signed him up for school. And then pulled him out after an incident."

Dean rolled his eyes. He shifted and caused the chair to emit a loud creak, startling others and making the librarian stamp the due date of the book she was holding with more force than strictly necessary. Sam looked at him as well, and Dean gave him a head nod to get on with it.

"One day, little Kenny pulled a knife."

The chair gave another tremendous groan that Dean harmonized as he sat bolt straight in his chair. He had momentarily forgotten about his injured ankle and the quick movement had jarred it too much for comfort. In his defense, though, it wasn't every day you heard of a kid pulling a knife on school grounds. Especially one that seemed to have some connection with the homicidal spirit case they were on.

Sam watched Dean's reaction with an amused smile. "Yeah," he said. "The day after it happened, Carl pulled Kenny out of school and no one ever saw him again. That was in 1947. Kenny was 10."

"Geez," Dean muttered. "And I thought we had issues."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, we're practically normal next to this kid."

"So this kid is looking more and more like he could be our spirit? I mean, he'd be the right age, right?" Dean thought back to the spirit he had seen in the cabin. Early twenties would have been how old Kenny would have been when Carl died. "Is there anything in there that says Kenny might have died around the same time?"

Sam studied the documents once more. "Uh – no – no it doesn't."

Dean thought about Sam's research he'd gone through. "And I guess since the boys didn't tell anyone about Carl's death until much later, there's not a chance they would have said anything about Kenny, huh?"

His brother shook his head. "But what if – " Sam stopped. He studied Sam's face, looking for an answer. "I think I might have to go back to that cabin."

Dean's head bolted straight up and he started to shake it vehemently. "Not without me you aren't. Why would you want to go back there anyways? Have you forgotten that just last night we almost died there?"

"No, I haven't forgotten," Sam said while rolling his eyes. "But if we don't figure this out, more people are going to die. I know you don't want that."

Silence reigned in their small space as the brothers each contemplated their train of thought. Dean was considering what Sam said and thinking of a way to protest without seeming selfish. Sam, on the other hand, was concentrating on Dean and praying that his older brother would allow him to go back out to the cabin.

"Fine," Dean slowly gritted out. "But I think we should wait until tomorrow at least. Maybe do some more research here – "

Sam interrupted. "'We'?" he said, disbelief coloring his tone. "Dean you just got a cast on your ankle this morning, there's no way you are going back into those woods."

"If you think there's any way that I'm letting you go in there alone, then you don't know me very well at all," Dean shot back.

Dean watched as Sam's expression shifted and he knew he had won. Before his brother even had a chance to say anything, Dean grinned. "I promise to be careful, mother."

Sam huffed, still obviously frustrated. "You better be, because I'm not dragging your heavy ass out twice."

He just continued to grin. However, both brothers quickly ducked their heads and buried themselves in their respective paperwork at the sight of the librarian looking heatedly over at them again.

 _People, man._ Dean thought to himself. _Scarier than any monster I've ever met._

AN: Sorry that this was more of a filler chapter! But with the action in the last few I felt like they kinda needed a break…I'd also like to point out that I don't claim to be any kind of medical expert so please forgive any horrible errors! Please let me know what you thought!


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